


a lack of color

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Deviant Connor, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Kissing, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Painting, Revolutionary Markus (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 22:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16819756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: Affronted, Connor squared his shoulders. “That doesn’t mean I have to invade every corner of your old life. We don’t go to CyberLife and—” He sighed and brushed his hand through his hair. Markus could imagine what all there was at CyberLife that Connor didn’t want to confront. “Some things don’t have to be for me.”





	a lack of color

Markus wasn’t sure where the set of paints came from, or even who had found them. They just showed up while he was out, brought home sometime between when he left this morning and when he came back just a moment ago. The familiar box was marked with a familiar name and was filled with objects that were almost as familiar to him as the back of his own hands. In the aftermath of the humans’ evacuation of Detroit, all of the shops had been abandoned, left to rust and rot while the humans declared them unsafe to be around, formed a sort of quarantine while they fled their homes and the livelihoods they’d kept afloat with android labor.

That was just fine with Markus. If they didn’t value Detroit, he and his fellow androids could do it for them. Rebuild it in their image.

That still didn’t explain the paints or why anyone had thought he might want them. But there they were all the same. Just sitting on the sideboard that had once belonged to Carl. The colors on the back of the box were visible in the mirror and Markus couldn’t quite help the warmth that welled inside of him at thinking of what Carl would have accomplished with just such a package. Markus had come back with so many over the years that he couldn’t untangle his own feelings with those feelings that were complicated by memory.

He still missed Carl; he wondered if there would be a day that passed that he didn’t. He hoped, too, that that day wouldn’t actually come. This was what kept them grounded, these feelings, and he never wanted to deny himself access to them even when they hurt. Not after they’d all fought so hard to ensure themselves the rights to them.

There was a sound from upstairs, so low that Markus’s audio processor almost couldn’t pick it up. It immediately put him on edge even though they hadn’t faced a threat from inside Detroit in months. Drawing in a deep breath, he grabbed the box of paints and climbed the stairs. Though every instinct told him to _scan scan scan_ for enemies, for weapons, for death and destruction around every corner, he fought the urge. There were androids who hadn’t adjusted to their new reality very well, the stress too much for them. Markus and so many others had tried to help, but there was only so much they could do that didn’t make it worse. Connor was pretty good at talking to some of them, convincing them that they were safe, but even he couldn’t reach all of them.

Markus refused to succumb to his fear now. Not in his home.

“Hello?” he called. There was a louder crash and something that might have been a swear word from the bedroom. A smile stretched across his mouth. Just Connor. Not surprising, but still welcome. “Connor?”

“Yeah,” Connor called, “in here.”

“What are you doing?” he asked, rounding the corner and leaning in the door frame. Markus’s eyes scanned the room; there was nothing different in it that he could see, no reason at all for Connor to be swearing or thumping around. Connor’s head popped up from behind the bed, his eyes glinting, bangs falling into his eyes. He shook his head to brush them aside, but they stayed put just as they always did, and then climbed to his feet, brushing himself off.

“Nothing,” Connor replied, managing at least to look like he wasn’t entirely full of shit. He blinked and a frown jerked on his lips before smoothing out, almost too quick to register. His head tipped toward the box in Markus’s arms. “You found it.”

“I didn’t realize you were hiding it,” Markus said, warm, fond, too fond. “Next time, you might try some place a little more discreet if I wasn’t supposed to see it.”

“You have a lot of belongings.” Connor shrugged. Really, a lot of them were Carl’s that Markus hadn’t quite willed himself to get rid of yet. The medical equipment, yes. The old bed, absolutely. But Carl’s things, the objects he loved best, that made up the sum total that remained of his life? Not quite yet. “I was trying to find somewhere suitable to place it.” His head tilted and he scrutinized Markus closely, almost made an itch build beneath his skin. “Jerry brought it. They’re planning on opening back up the paint shop. I know you… cared for an artist once, but I wasn’t sure whether you would want it. They seemed to think you would.”

They didn’t talk about their pasts, most of them, and Connor rarely pried after having spent so much of his existence doing just that, probing and pushing his way into lives that didn’t want him there. Talking just served as a distasteful reminder of a time that few wanted to remember. Mostly Markus kept his to himself because his was better than most and he felt ashamed that he should have been so lucky when others were not. Even Connor knew little about it and had never asked. Whatever he knew, he’d learned on his own, before he’d become deviant. And that was reason enough for him to be circumspect.

No wonder he was busy staring at his hands, fingers twitching as though searching for something to fill them.

“Hey,” Markus said, stepping into the room. Carefully, he placed the box onto the bed. “I don’t mind.”

Though Connor relaxed slightly, he still seemed tense, a little wary, his eyes searching Markus’s face for signs of something. Anger, maybe. Or sadness. But all he felt was warmth, affection, both for Connor for wanting to protect Markus and for Jerry, who seemed to have infected the city with their enthusiasm, each and every one of them taking it upon themselves to improve the place for androids. Shops, parks, museums. They seemed determined to give all of it back to their android siblings, the things that had once belonged to humans. The restaurants were a wash, but there was plenty still that androids could enjoy that the Jerrys could provide.

Markus rounded the bed and took Connor’s hands in his, stilling them. “Come with me,” he said, smiling, nodding, willing Connor to go along with him on this. “I have something to show you.”

“Okay,” Connor said. His eyebrow climbed his forehead in dubious solidarity with his voice. 

He lead Connor down the stairs and into the studio outside. Markus almost never went there these days and had only ever gone in order to clean up the last of Carl’s work, box each piece up nice and tight, keep them safe until he could figure out the best course of action. Of all the things Markus now owned, he had yet to find Carl’s will and testament. It seemed ridiculous now. They’d talked about everything, shared everything, and Carl had so worried about how Markus would get along after he was gone. How was it they’d gotten that far without Markus knowing what he wanted after his death?

Then again, what was the point of going over those details with Markus? It wasn’t like he would have had the right to execute Carl’s wishes. Nobody could have guessed what was to come, nor what had happened on that last day they were together before everything fell apart. Until he figured out where that will was, he didn’t feel comfortable doing anything more than he’d already done to the studio. Probably his lawyer had fled in the aftermath of the revolution anyway.

It was a good thing, though, that he’d done what he did instead of letting it fall into ruin like so many other corners of Detroit. Because at least he’d be able to reassure Connor. Maybe actually prove to him that it wasn’t a big deal, that maybe he kind of enjoyed the idea of Jerry bringing paint to him.

“Are you sure you want me down here?” Connor asked. “I know this is—”

“Just,” Markus said, not letting his annoyance get the better of him. He was perfectly at home with the idea of Connor seeing though he’d never considered showing him before. In fact, he wanted to share this with Connor. He just didn’t like that Connor was so preoccupied with the thought that Markus wanted to deliberately exclude him from any part of his life. “I wouldn’t bring you if I didn’t want to. You’re as welcome here as you are in any other part of the house. I would’ve picked somewhere else to stay entirely if I didn’t want to share it with you.”

Affronted, Connor squared his shoulders. “That doesn’t mean I have to invade every corner of your old life. We don’t go to CyberLife and—” He sighed and brushed his hand through his hair. Markus could imagine what all there was at CyberLife that Connor didn’t want to confront. “Some things don’t have to be for me.”

That was sweet. It really was. So much so that Markus worried about the amount of affection he felt in that moment. It was still a wonder even after all this time that he could have it and keep it, that a human wouldn’t come along and take it away on a whim. “How about if I want this to be ‘for you?’ What then?”

Connor craned his neck to a good look around the studio,. The curtain remained in place, Carl’s cherry picker parked and ready with his last painting was still behind it. Markus had found a portable force field to set up to protect it from the elements, a short-term solution to what was turning into a long-term problem. Boxed up in plastic-lined wood and leaning against the easel nearby was the thing that Markus wanted to show him.

“Then,” Connor said, deliberate and slow, “I suppose I would like to see it.”

“Good.” Markus clapped him on the shoulder and then crouched before the crate, prying it open with steady, sure hands. The wood creaked in protest and a few slivers of it splintered off and fell to the floor. Markus paid them no mind, entirely focused on the painting inside, suddenly eager to see it again. Perhaps it was time to find somewhere to hang it. Pulling it free, he pushed the plastic aside and raised it up. The crate’s lid fell to the ground with a sharp clatter, but he paid that no mind either as he placed the canvas onto the easel.

It was every bit as vibrant and pristine as on the day he’d created it. Carl had once said Bellini’s paints were the only ones worth a damn any longer and Markus hadn’t known what he meant at the time. Even though these weren’t the most ideal conditions for them—Markus may not have been an artist, but he’d learned a thing or two about proper archival techniques, even if he hadn’t had time to enact any of that—the colors, shades of green and melancholic blue, a few yellows blended in, all working together to form the image of a pair of hands, palms up, were perfect. It felt like it had been years since Markus had painted the image, but it had only been a handful of months. At least one of which was spent in some unfavorable weather.

Strange how time moved now. He could still keep perfect record of the date, but it wasn’t the same without humans around to shape it. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Going to work. Coming home from work. It all gave the days structure they no longer needed in Detroit. What point was there in breakfast when you didn’t need to eat? Or going to work when it didn’t need to be done?

“Did Carl paint this?” Connor asked, approaching the painting. He looked at it from over Markus’s shoulder, close enough that if Markus turned his head he might’ve landed a kiss on Connor’s cheek. He had half a mind to do just that, fluster Connor just that littlest bit before he surprised him a second time.

“No.” Then Markus paused and allowed himself to smile, prideful. “I painted it.”

Connor didn’t say anything for a long moment. His eyes went wide and his mouth parted slightly. Then it was Connor who turned his head and their lips were close enough that Markus couldn’t stop himself any longer from capturing Connor’s mouth with his. Whatever he was going to say didn’t matter, not right at that moment. He was tenacious anyway. Whatever it was he wanted Markus to know, he’d hold onto, share it as soon as he was in a position to do so.

His hand came up and rested on Markus’s neck, thumb pressed under this jaw, adjusting Markus’s head to better align themselves together. That was Connor through and through though, always determined to find the best way forward. Markus was happy to go along with it, happier still to pull Connor closer and press his hand against Connor’s, linking them together. Their fingers twined easily, palms sliding against one another’s. The skin seemed to melt away, leaving behind only the white and gleaming surface that was their true appearance. When they finally parted, Connor opened his eyes and smiled at Markus. “It’s a good painting,” he said. “At least I think it is. I like it anyway.”

Markus couldn’t have imagined hearing Connor say he liked anything back when they first met, but he sensed the certainty in Connor’s tone as he stated he had a preference for it rather than against. The rest, well, even humans couldn’t agree about what made art good versus what made it the opposite. Perhaps Connor would laugh if Markus made mention of it.

Or maybe he’d just chalk it up to humans not knowing what they were doing or even what they wanted and roll his eyes as he complained about them passing that weakness onto androids.

“Have you done any more paintings?” Connor asked, reaching for the canvas. He did so like to touch things, inspecting them with his fingertips. Markus sometimes wondered if CyberLife had made him more sensitive to pressure or installed higher-grade haptic interfaces within him to give him that kind of focus. Markus wasn’t worried though. His touch was gentle, careful. He had no reason to be worried that the painting would come to harm, though humans had often taken a look, don’t touch sensibility to their own work.

“No.” Markus shook his head. “No, I hadn’t thought about it.” But now that the idea was lodged there, he thought maybe…

Maybe.

He was being pulled in so many different directions that doing something for himself hadn’t even registered yet as a possibility. They were building their own society from the ground up and their models for success weren’t up to snuff. They were on their own if they wanted to come up with something better. And that was entirely without considering the possibility that the humans would grow tired of the slap in the face that was a free Detroit and try to do something about their presence there. Painting hadn’t even crossed his mind.

But he could do it, couldn’t he? If he really wanted to, there was nothing stopping him.

And now he had fresh supplies.

“Has anyone ever told Jerry they were a genius?” Markus asked, a feeling of giddiness bubbling in his chest. “Every last one of them?”

“I doubt it,” Connor answered, dubious, “though I’m sure they wouldn’t mind hearing it from you.”

Markus tossed a look his way, but clapped him on the shoulder again and pushed him toward a nearby stool. After quickly clearing away the scattered remnants of whatever still life Carl had pretended he wanted to paint—he proclaimed painting from life to be an important exercise, but he hated it all the same, twisted that exercise into something else entirely at every possible opportunity—and pressed Connor to sit on it. Then he replaced the old canvas with a fresh one, brushed away the cobwebs that clung to the corner of the easel.

“Stay here,” Markus said, unnecessarily since Connor didn’t seem inclined to move, his hands folding neatly in his lap. Like that, he made himself look as though he would wait out the apocalypse, all at Markus’s request.

That, at least, wouldn’t be necessary. Not today anyway.

But by the time Markus returned, maybe, maybe two minutes later, Connor had found an old, ratty paintbrush and was busy flipping it between his fingers. So maybe that wasn’t so true after all. Smudges of paint in a myriad colors, some taking the shape of Carl’s fingerprints, flashed in and out of sight as it flicked across Connor’s knuckles. But he was as placid as ever.

Taking Carl’s palette from the crate on the far side of the room where he’d stored Carl’s extra equipment, he came back and stood before Connor. He mixed a few blobs of color on the multi-colored wood and lifted the brush, paused, lowered it again. A vulnerable little flutter beat against the inside of his chest, his thirium pump regulator pounding in a way that had grown more familiar over the months, as he learned what it meant to be alive, to feel things, to respond physiologically to those feelings. He remembered such reactions from before, but he hadn’t known what they meant at the time. Then again, he supposed they hadn’t meant anything at the time, not without Markus’s mind to interpret them. He’d turned it into a private little game of ‘What are you feeling, Markus?’ and he’d gotten pretty good at it.

Now, he thought it might have been shyness, nervousness, not something he was overly familiar with. And though he couldn’t say it was pleasant, concerns whirring away inside the nooks and crannies of the circuits in his mind, he did relish it.

What was the alternative? Go back to the way things were? He would never do that, no matter how bad he might feel. And this wasn’t bad at all, just different.

He lifted his brush, decisive this time, and dabbed it against the palette and then against the canvas. He remembered how Carl agonized sometimes over a blank canvas, but Markus hadn’t had the displeasure of experiencing that, not yet. Maybe one day he would. As it was, the whole experiment was still so new that everything felt unique, worth doing, worth trying. If he didn’t like the outcome, he could try again.

Androids had all the time in the world to do as they wished. And nobody could stop Markus from visiting Jerry at Bellini’s in order to bring more canvases home. There was no money in free Detroit and millions of androids motivated to do whatever they damn well pleased. And apparently some of them wanted to create the pigments Bellini’s once sold. And if one day there were no more canvases to be had, there was paper, or abandoned sheets of metal for all he cared.

There would be enough abandoned metal in Detroit to keep Markus occupied until the end of time.

As Markus looked at Connor, he realized he didn’t need to close his eyes to paint any longer, didn’t need Carl’s voice in his audio processors to urge him along. Didn’t need guidance. It was easy to look at Connor and see beyond the tens of thousands of pores that CyberLife had painstakingly ensured his face would have when his skin was firmly in place, the hair that shaded dark brown to black and back again, the eyes that carried a few unnecessary bags and discolorations beneath them, and the pointless moles that only existed to make him seem more human.

Carl used to paint people in various shades of colors that were unnatural to them, stabs of bloody blue, bright streaks of pink. He obscured half of his subjects in order to reveal something else. Markus might have done the same, focused on the jut of Connor’s jaw, the delicate line of his mouth, captured the smooth arc and harsh angles that so perfectly encapsulated who Connor was.

But he didn’t. Because that was what Carl would’ve done and Carl would’ve then told him to do it again.

Instead, he painted exactly what he saw: the weariness in Connor’s brown gaze, the pained stiffness in his shoulders, the worried twitch of his hands mid-motion. He painted the things he wished he could take away. He hadn’t known Connor before he’d gone deviant, may not have liked him, but Markus ached to take from Connor the baggage he didn’t wish to carry. There were few androids who carried the sort of guilt Connor did. None, maybe, because Connor was a one of a kind model with hundreds of dead predecessors and he was not proud of his purpose.

Markus would have him be proud of the things he’d done since he’d found himself, but it wasn’t as easy as all that. You couldn’t just make someone feel other than what they felt.

You could show them—maybe, hopefully—that beneath that weariness, that pain, that worried twitch was a core of goodness. That there was warm determination in that brown gaze and stability in those shoulders and lightning-quick cleverness in those hands, too.

Again, maybe. Again: hopefully.

By the time he was done, the light had changed just enough that there were shadows beginning to gather in the hollows of Connor’s cheekbones and he seemed fit to burst with curiosity.

Finally, Markus laid down the paintbrush, stepped aside and gestured at the easel. “Ta-da,” he said, self-deprecating. It wasn’t that he feared what Connor would think, but there was still something to be said for how hard it was to put yourself out there gracefully.

Connor came around the easel and stood behind Markus’s shoulder. His hands settled on Markus’s waist and his chin hooked over Markus’s shoulder. He used Connor’s position to kiss his temple, right where his LED still sat, embedded in his skin. It blinked and flickered between blue and yellow. His eyes were narrowed and he bit his lip and it took everything in Markus’s power to not ask him what he thought of it.

He would give his opinion in time. He always did.

His hand settled across Markus’s stomach, tightened in the soft fabric of his shirt. A smile crossed his mouth and he said, quiet, right into Markus’s ear, “Do I always look that miserable?”

If Markus didn’t know him better, he might’ve assumed Connor was upset. That wasn’t what he heard at all, not what he believed Connor meant at all, because there was a teasing edge in Connor’s tone and finally a smile bloomed across his mouth. He wasn’t unhappy with it. In fact, he sounded happy, amused. “Sometimes more,” Markus said, willing to get into the spirit of the thing, if only for the chance to make Connor laugh, such a rare occurrence that it deserved to be treasured. “It’s tragic, really.”

“I should probably do something about that.”

“I can think of a few ways,” Markus said, turning in Connor’s grasp even if it did further wrinkle his shirt in the process. But Connor allowed it, loosening his grip and then letting his hands splay against Markus’s lower back.

Connor’s gaze dipped to Markus’s mouth. “And what is it you’d suggest?”

“Gratitude. Mindfulness.” Markus flicked him between the forehead. “Cutting yourself some slack maybe. The usual things people do when they stop giving themselves such a hard time about things.”

“Gratitude, huh? Did I mention I loved it?” Connor asked, straightening his spine and taking a step back. “Not to be self-serving here, but you really did a great job. Capturing my features like that.” His smile grew blinding, incandescent. Infectious. “Amazing, really. I’m in awe.”

Markus shoved at his shoulder. “Now you’re just being an asshole on purpose.”

Connor’s eyes widened and he shook his head quickly. “I’ll have you know that’s not true at all.” He didn’t bother assuaging Markus’s ego any further. They both knew each other too well for Connor to think he’d hurt Markus’s feelings.

But Markus got what he wasn’t saying, too, what he maybe couldn’t say:

_Thank you. Thank you for showing me this_.

And Markus was perfectly okay with that.


End file.
